


all your burnt bridges

by darlathecyborgpluviophile



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (IE a lot), Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Communication, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Penis, Deviant Connor, Dissociation, Fingering, Flashbacks, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Grooming, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Oral Sex, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Self-Esteem Issues, Sleep Paralysis, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Trauma Recovery, Traumatized Connor (Detroit: Become Human), drunk makeouts, light consent issues, referenced child death, self blame, self hatred, sexual violence mentioned but not depicted, workplace discrimination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29423841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/pseuds/darlathecyborgpluviophile
Summary: He may not have been alive for very long, but even in that short time, he’s well-schooled in not outwardly betraying any emotion. So when Hank arrives back from the restrooms approximately one minute and thirty seconds later, he doesn’t notice anything might be wrong.Connor thinks he might like it better that way.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 15
Kudos: 87





	all your burnt bridges

Connor’s been in this car before. He’s analyzed the interior before. Tolerated heavy metal in here before. Now, though, as he climbs in, settling into the worn passenger-side seat and fastening the seatbelt, entirely new sensations overwhelm him.

For one, it doesn’t smell very good.

True, this is something he had noticed during his very first ride on the way to the Ortiz scene, but even as recently as two weeks ago that sensation had been…abstracted. Easier to recognize, deconstruct, and compartmentalize so it wouldn’t interfere with his processing. Now the smell practically assaults him, cheap beer and cigarette smoke and stale coffee proving intense _enough_ before Hank opens the door and settles into the driver’s seat, adding the musk on his unwashed coat into the fray.

“Ready to go?” he rumbles, hand on his keys, sticking out of the ignition slot. Connor has to blink a few times and clear away the stronger-than-usual sensory input in order to think properly.

“Yes,” he replies. If Hank hears the slight hesitation in his tone, he doesn’t mention it.

Humans typically experience olfactory adaptation after just a few minutes, no matter how repulsive or distracting the original scent.

Connor, however, isn’t human.

*

The house, too, is the same as he remembers it. Connor hasn’t even been gone very long – a week since the events at the CyberLife Tower and Downtown, where upon Markus’s insistence, he visited Washington D.C. with the rest of the Jericho crew – but for some reason, he expects something more, _something_ in the world outside of his chassis to reflect the uncertainty that he feels. Hank goes through the door first once it’s unlocked, and Connor gets the proper experience of entering into the house through its intended entryway. There’s a long rug from the doormat to where the room opens up, a series of shelves with books and tchotchkes along the wall. Sumo bounds up immediately upon the return of his owner and…company.

“Hey, big guy,” Hank laughs in a tired way, grinning as he crouches down to rustle the fur around Sumo’s face. The dog is panting excitedly, nuzzling back against scarred hands, threatening to get slobber all over Hank’s coat. When the moment’s mostly passed, Hank looks back up at Connor, along with Sumo, expectantly.

And Connor waits, expecting some sort of prompt, some sort of suggestion from his software, only to be met with silence and the usual unobtrusive blue-white-gray of his HUD. He’s hesitating, somehow. Overthinking.

Then Hank is standing back up and Sumo is retreating to the kitchen, and his chance is gone.

“Alright,” Hank says, a little too casual. Trying to break the silence.

“Sorry,” Connor manages to say. “Sorry. I got distracted.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Hank makes a gesture and walks a little ahead of him, now that Sumo has vacated the area in search of other entertainment. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities now that you’re crashing here.”

“Right,” Connor nods. There’s a warmth in his chest that can’t be explained by his internal temperature, and by the time it reaches his cheeks, he realizes it must be some emotion he’s not entirely familiar with. Yet. “I wanted to thank you again for your generosity, Lieutenant.”

Hank, now several yards away by the couch’s end table and emptying his pockets, snorts. “Generosity? That’s a new one. And I already told ya, you can call me Hank.”

“Hank,” Connor repeats. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Hank replies, looking directly at him while he pulls his coat off. “Not every day shit goes down like this around here.” Quite unceremoniously, he tosses it over the back of the couch, wet patches be damned. “Besides, it’ll be nice to have some company.”

Something in Connor softens, near the origin of that warmth. “I’m glad,” he says, and means it.

“The uh,” Hank scratches the back of his head, “the couch doesn’t pull out, but it’s a decent size, right? If that doesn’t work I might have some sleeping bags in the attic…” He frowns, and looks back towards Connor. “Do you even sleep?”

“I’m capable of entering a stasis mode not unlike sleep,” Connor replies. no hesitation in his voice – this is something he knows how to answer. “The cycle lasts for eight hours exactly and is necessary to install updates and rest my systems. But I can go for days without it, if need be.”

“Yeah, that sounds like sleep. Well, ‘cept for the last part.”

“The couch will suffice fine,” Connor says, eyes drifting to the living room furniture. He doesn’t mention that he’s never entered stasis while lying down before.

The rest of the evening passes quietly, and it’s one of the strangest of Connor’s short life.

Hank changes his slacks for a pair of sweatpants shortly after their arrival and wastes no time slouching back on the couch and flicking on the television to the most recent Gears game. With all the craziness of the last few weeks, he says, the news doesn’t appeal to him right now.

Connor can relate to that sentiment. _Lets_ himself relate to that sentiment.

He sits on the couch next to Hank, who doesn’t say anything, doesn’t complain. For a while, it’s nice. Connor doesn’t remember experiencing non-violent physical contact at all before today.

At 8:03 P.M., Hank grumbles something about dinner and places a delivery order for pizza through the phone. After it arrives he doesn’t bother relocating to the kitchen, just opening the carboard box on the low coffee table and eating greasy slices right there on the couch. When Connor glances back, he finds the kitchen table as messy and crowded as it was the time he broke in – perhaps that explains Hank’s…laissez-faire attitude. The smell brings Sumo over to the couch, and Connor’s able to make up for the opportunity he lost earlier, threading his fingers into thick fur and just petting, holding, petting. He really, _really_ does like dogs.

At 10:21 P.M., Hank stands up with the pizza box.

“I’ll toss this so it’s not in your face tonight,” he says. Connor wasn’t planning on interacting with the coffee table nor the empty pizza box at any point during the night – still, it gets rid of the distracting savory smell. He can’t complain.

Hand on his hips, Hank stretches his back coming out of the kitchen.

“Right. Well. Anything you’re gonna need for the night?”

It takes .42 seconds for Connor to come up with a response. “Not that I’m aware of.”

Hank’s eyes run from his face, down to his shoes, and back up again. “Alright. Yell if you need anything. Sumo and I’re going to bed.” He whistles the dog over, but pauses walking just as they cross the threshold of the hallway.

“G’night, Connor.”

.65 seconds this time. “Good night, Hank.”

Connor lies awkwardly down once the door shuts. His tie tightens a bit around his neck – although he doesn’t need to breathe in the same way humans do, the biting pressure of the fabric isn’t really comfortable.

He activates stasis anyway, his world smoothing out into cool gray.

*

Androids are in kind of a strange position, at the moment.

Since the definitive night of the revolution, Markus and company have been working tirelessly with both Federal and local Michigan Government to roll out protections, guarantees, basic rights for their kind. But like with any law – especially those in the United States – the actual application tends to be pretty hit-or-miss, especially so early on into androids’ legal personhood.

As such, Connor isn’t allowed to go back to work until labor laws are sorted. Captain Fowler has already guaranteed him a permanent position as Assistant Detective to Lieutenant Anderson, same as during the deviancy case, but none of them have the power to actually get the ball rolling on that yet.

“Might take a week, might take a month,” Fowler had summarized.

Connor’s at a bit of a loss.

The next day Hank has to go in, Connor just sits on the couch with Sumo and watches him leave. They exchange ‘good morning’s and ‘goodbye’s, of course, but that’s all – the front door closes and locks too soon. When Sumo gets up to finish his breakfast Connor soon discovers the mess made of his dog food, with one bulk-sized bag unsealed and threatening to spill kibble all over the floor, and the other sitting underneath it, maimed by dog nails.

Come to think, the kitchen table hasn’t been cleared once since he moved in. Who knows how long before _that_ it’s been. Connor scans the trash and old takeout containers, and the green-blue discoloration on their plastic interiors is enough for him to make a plan, his first new directive since the revolution.

It’s easy enough to find where Hank keeps the garbage sacks. He pulls one out of the cupboard and circles back, only to spot Hank's revolver on the table. The picture of Cole sits next to it, still face down. Neither seem to have been disturbed since the night they went to CyberLife Tower. Curious, Connor lays the empty, shook-out garbage bag on a chair, and checks the chambers.

Five empty. One bullet.

Suddenly Connor’s mind drifts to the night of the revolution – the army he summoned, Markus, the snow.

The service pistol shaking in his grip.

He blinks – the memory had come unbidden. Strange.

Scanning the kitchen, Connor finds an untouched drawer filled close to spilling with crumpled grocery sacks. He stuffs the revolver underneath the pile of plastic before returning to the table and getting to work.

At 8:41 P.M., Hank comes home to a freakishly clean house, practically sparkling, and swears.

“What the _fuck_ is this?”

Connor stands from a crouch and walks out of the bathroom he was cleaning to meet a baffled, pissed off Hank by the couch.

“Hank,” Connor says by way of greeting, and can’t help the slight smile that lifts the corner of his mouth. “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, okay, what the fuck? Did you spend the whole day cleaning up my goddamn house?”

Connor cocks his head to the side slightly. “There was mold present at the bottom of several of the takeout containers on the kitchen table. Did you happen to purchase those prior to our meeting?”

“I – just –” Hank splutters, face getting blotchy, then covers his eyes with a hand. Sumo has long since gotten up from the back of the house and started pacing around their knees, looking for attention and not getting it. “How is that any of your fuckin’ business?”

 _Oh_. The metaphorical gears turn in Connor’s head. He’s crossed a boundary. Maybe he should have asked first.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. If it helps, I didn’t enter your bedroom at all.” That’s the only thing he assumed might be off-limits.

Well, and the gun. But that one's for the best.

Hank mutters a swear, and circles around to the couch with Sumo. He motions for Connor to follow. Connor sits down in the armchair to the right of the room, hands clasped neatly in his lap, legs together.

“Right. Well, first of all, I’ve already said Hank’s fine. We live together, for chrissakes. And secondly…”

Hank looks past him, out the window, then back to his face. He starts again. “Y’know, if I wanted a housekeeping ‘droid, I coulda just…”

He stops short before he finishes the sentence. Androids haven’t been purchasable from any storefront for close to two weeks now, since Markus’s demonstration and the President’s statement. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue on Hank’s part, so Connor doesn’t say anything.

“Look, I’m not mad at you,” he says. “I can see your little light there flickering yellow. I’m not gonna lecture you. You just – don’t force yourself to clean up an old guy’s garbage. Okay?”

“I was in no way ‘forced to,’ Hank,” Connor says diplomatically.

“Yeah, well. We should still get you some normal hobbies.”

Connor frowns. “I don’t really need –”

“Oh yes you do,” Hank asserts, and his tone suggests no room for argument. “You’ll figure something out. We got books, movies, plenty of things to keep you occupied until this shit with the department’s figured out. In the meantime, I…appreciate what you’ve done here, but it’s my responsibility.”

Connor arches an eyebrow.

“Don’t gimme that look,” Hank says, and stands. “It’s _my_ house. And besides, now that you’re here, I got no choice but to do better, huh?”

Something decidedly unpleasant rushes through Connor’s systems with those words – anxiety, maybe. Nervousness. Embarrassment.

“I guess so,” he says, so quietly he almost mumbles, trying to decipher the new feeling.

*

Before Hank leaves the house a couple days later, he places a wad of cash in Connor’s hand.

“You want an objective?” he asks, grinning like he’s about to deliver a terrible punchline. “Go get yourself some new clothes. You don’t gotta wear that suit all the time. Take a taxi, find something that interests you.”

Connor stands there longer than he probably should after Hank leaves, analyzing the crumpled fistful of twenties in his hand and absent-mindedly petting Sumo. When he finally wanders into the nearest big-box department store at 1:00 P.M. on a Thursday, he feels lost, to say the least. He thinks about the dwarf gourami from the Phillips’ penthouse, frantically flapping on the floor before he placed it back in the tank. This situation might stand as a solid equivalent.

Still, Connor is nothing if not adaptable. He doesn’t have to ask where the clothing might be, doesn’t betray any physical signs of being out of place. In the Men’s Department he scans the shelves of neatly folded button-up shirts to find a few matching the size and shape of his body. It’s still a bitter Detroit winter, so all of the clothing being sold tends towards the warmer side of things. No matter; his internal cooling systems can compensate for heavier _or_ lighter clothing. He adds a few sweaters to the bundle in his arms.

He even makes it through paying for the goods with human bills to a cashier with huge bags under her eyes, likely there because of the suddenly-displaced android workforce. Connor nods awkwardly when he thanks her, and walks out of the store faster than is strictly necessary.

When Hank gets home, he’s more pleased than Connor himself when he sees him wearing one of the new button-ups – white with a faint blue grid pattern, and absolutely no android indicators.

And damn it all, that almost-embarrassed rush floods him again, heating his cheeks uncomfortably.

The days alone at home start to get smoother, too – at Hank’s behest, Connor spends time browsing the few DVDs still kept above the television and flicking through streaming services for something to occupy him till the end of the day. After three days he switches to reading, finding that the motionless staring involved in watching something frustrates him when he could just as easily find a summary on the work in less than a second. For books, the house only has romance novels and thrillers in beaten up, mass-produced paperbacks – they suffice fine, for the time being. Connor makes a mental note to expand the collection, if he ends up really liking any.

Then there’s Hank himself – what Connor considers to be the best part of his day. Their routine has become familiar, the only shred of normalcy he’s felt since…well. Since he started _feeling_ anything.

Sometimes Hank needs time to decompress alone after his day, but Connor finds that’s less common than he initially expected. Most of the time, Hank places an order for something greasy, cheap, and deliverable – Connor doesn’t say a word, he’s tried before and lost – and they sit on the couch with Sumo between them, usually catching up on sports or news, talking intermittently. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t mind watching television as much in the evenings; Hank’s there to bounce commentary and questions off of, to banter with in a way that makes the tightness in Connor’s chest loosen, just a little.

At nights before stasis Connor reflects, studying his physical and mental reactions to experiences from throughout the day. Often he compares them to dictionary definitions of common human feelings, or initiates Google searches on the stimuli attached to certain emotions.

Based on his research, Connor thinks he’s feeling…comfortable, overall.

There’s a lot he doesn’t understand, and a lot that worries him. Mostly, this is still fretting over the instabilities in his software, even if he knows what they mean now. It’s always disconcerting when you know something is _right_ for you, yet your body still sees it as a threat. Still – all’s well that ends well.

Right?

*

It begins at approximately 11 P.M. on the 5th of December, 2038, shortly after entering stasis. One moment Connor is lying peacefully across Hank’s couch, his hands clasped across his stomach – the next, he’s sitting prone in a snowstorm.

It’s cold.

Either his temperature regulator is broken, or the conditions here are sub-zero. Or maybe the weather in _her_ garden possesses some method to bypass his protective systems. He almost wants to ask, but there’s no one around.

No Amanda. No Emergency Exit.

No Hank.

Connor knows it’s getting bad when he starts to lose feeling in his arms, despite the fabric of his CyberLife jacket. Did he ever _actually_ escape? Is he just doomed here? He doesn’t even have a gun.

A freezing wind blows through the blank space, sending up snowflakes into his stinging face, and he falls over into the icy ground.

He grits his teeth.

“Hello?” Connor calls. “Hank?”

Only the wind replies. Snow coats his cheek.

He sucks in a breath.

“Amanda?’ he calls as loud as he can, voice cracking at the end.

Nothing.

 _Worthless_ , he thinks. _Even CyberLife’s given up on you._

_Defective._

_Unstable._

It’s so cold.

_Failure._

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, warmth pressing through wrinkles and callouses, shocking his HUD back into working order and he’s flailing and falling shoulder first into a hardwood floor.

“Jesus Christ, Connor,” someone says from above him.

 _Hank_.

Pain ripples like waves through his system – an unfortunate side effect of deviancy that he isn’t used to yet. Connor groans, then opens his eyes.

This is Hank’s house. Hank himself is standing above him, looking into his face like Connor’s said something _funny_ , but not _ha-ha_ funny. His hands are outstretched in an attempt to catch him, which he obviously failed.

Connor’s HUD displays the date: 6 December 2038. 1:15 A.M. Facts and figures race through his mind – _the revolution occurred on November 12 th. You moved in with Hank on the 20th. You sleep on the couch. It’s warm in here._

Connor’s breath comes out strangled, and he lifts his non-painful hand to his mouth.

“Jesus,” Hank repeats, softer this time. He makes a grunt of exertion and mutters a swear as he levers himself to the floor, half-kneeling between the couch and the coffee table. “Hey. It’s okay.”

“I –” A shudder goes through Connor before he can finish that particular thought. “I don’t know what happened. What happened?”

“Fuck if I know. Probably a nightmare.”

“Androids don’t have nightmares,” he snaps.

“They _clearly_ fuckin' do,” Hank snaps back, but his hand returns to rest on Connor’s shoulder. Connor sits up now that the pain’s gone down a bit, trying as casually as he can to press into the touch.

“How did you know to – come investigate?” he asks.

It’s subtle, but Hank’s body heat rises ever so slightly.

“You weren’t exactly quiet,” Hank mutters.

There’s a deeper truth buried there, but Connor’s too exhausted to press.

They lapse into silence, and Connor brings his left hand up to rub at his sore arm. He’s _not_ wearing his CyberLife uniform – just an over-sized t-shirt from the back of Hank’s closet that the latter had thrown at him a couple days prior, saying he “deserved some decent goddamn pajamas.” It’s worn, almost threadbare, but comfortable. Yellow. So long that when he stands it threatens to fall past his boxers. In short, nothing at all like the uniform.

Hank hasn’t gotten up, hasn’t left his awkward kneel in front of him. His thumb on Connor’s shoulder is running in slow, sideways motions, occasionally bumping against his neck. Connor thinks of the day after returning from the Capitol, the hug at a shuttered Chicken Feed. The closest he thinks he’s ever felt to happiness.

Another shudder. Connor might like to feel that again, right about now.

“Hank,” he starts, hesitating. A wave of simulated nausea washes through him, along with that peculiar _anxiety-nervousness-embarrassment_ he feels around Hank at times like this. At least his breathing’s back under control, for the time being.

Hank winces. “I gotta get up. Sorry, kid,” he says, and shifts onto the couch. Connor rises to meet him on the opposite cushion, an action he doesn’t even have to think about.

“Hank,” he repeats. “Do you remember when I got back?”

“From D.C.?” he asks, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes. “Yeah, of course.”

Connor’s thirium pump jitters before smoothing back into its normal spin.

“Do you think. Would you. Could we –”

“Are you asking me a for a hug?” Hank deadpans, looking directly at him.

Connor swallows. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence, and that noxious cocktail of anxiety floods his chassis, like someone’s poured a drink on his head, like he’s been left out in the rain. His pump rattles in its chest, and it’s a miracle Hank can’t hear it, it’s a miracle that a stress meter hasn’t appeared on his HUD by now, it’s a _fucking_ miracle that his _worthless, defective_ chassis is even still _functioning_ –

But then there are arms around him, strong, warmer than he remembers from that winter afternoon. Just like then, Hank pulls Connor’s head down on his shoulder, and keeps his hand as a solid weight on the back of his neck.

“Of course,” he says, followed by what sounds like a sigh of relief. “Shit, kid.”

It’s amazing. It’s _enough_.

Yet when the door to Hank’s bedroom shuts again and Connor lies back down, he swears he can feel a chill breeze prickle across his skin.

*

Nothing feels right, that first day back at work.

When Connor walks through the front doors of the precinct with Hank for the first time post-revolution, the world around him almost seems to stutter. The reception area is still crowded with citizens as always, but the staff behind the desk is a mix of androids – not all the same model – and humans. He doesn’t need to transmit authorization anymore, much less with the Lieutenant walking in beside him, so the two head straight to the offices – but not before movement out of the corner of his eye.

When Connor tilts his head briefly to find the source, he sees a young android, a light streak in the swoop of her hair, smiling and waving at him – the woman who had given him clearance his first time here. He’s unable to wave back before she’s obscured by the wall, and the room opens up into rows of desks.

 _She must have turned deviant,_ is the first thing Connor thinks, followed by, _she recognized me._

Guilt washes through him. He’s really that recognizable?

And what is it for – being CyberLife’s agent, or Markus’s comrade?

“Well, would ya look at that. The bot of the hour!”

The strident, immediately offensive voice interrupts his thoughts for better or worse.

“Fuck off, Gavin,” Hank says without breaking his stride.

“Oh, what, are you its _bodyguard_ now? I thought you hated these fuckin’ things.” He’s sitting on Chen’s desk with a cup of coffee from the break room, while Chen herself tries desperately to ignore the mounting HR crisis dangling his legs next to her.

“Those ‘ _things’_ have rights now, jackass,” Hank replies, leaving that as his final word on the matter, before sitting down in his desk chair and turning on his computer terminal. Connor gingerly sits down at the desk opposite. There’s a nameplate now: _Asst. Detective Connor_. He genuinely doesn’t know how to feel about that, except pre-emptive exhaustion at having to tolerate Gavin for the next who-knows-how-long.

“Lieutenant,” Connor starts.

“Still don’t have to call me that,” he replies, not looking up.

“Right. Sorry. I just wanted to let you know that I am willing to change desks, if you would like me to.”

That gets Hank’s attention. He shifts his gaze up from the transparent computer monitor, looking down his nose at Connor.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

A shiver runs through him, like a minor electric shock zapping through his chassis. He feels…uncomfortable. Yet the discomfort itself feels foreign, like it’s happening to another android and he is merely observing, trying to study it, trying to make it make _sense_.

Connor leans in, dropping his voice a little lower. “Given the controversy surrounding my position here at the department, it’s likely that I’ll be receiving a lot of unwanted attention. I don’t mind moving, given that you like your privacy.”

Hank just stares at him like there’s something distasteful on his face. Connor almost brings a hand up to brush against his cheek and check.

“What? Listen, if you’re talking about that piece of shit Reed, I don’t give a damn. If he keeps harassing his co-workers someone’ll report it.”

“I can move, if it’s preferred.”

“Well it’s not fuckin’ preferred, okay? Jesus.” Hank goes back to his computer, typing annoyedly on his keyboard. “This is your desk, it’s got your name on it, for chrissakes. You’re supposed to be here.”

_You’re supposed to be here._

The shiver runs through him again. He’s _supposed_ to be in the bowels of CyberLife, picked apart for defects. Or worse, at their right hand, feeling nothing at all. But Hank sees it differently. Of course he does.

What a strange, contrary little man. Why on Earth does he bother?

“I understand,” Connor replies. The look on Hank’s face is no longer so baffled, but more discerning. It’s the look he gets when he’s running through facts, trying to solve a case. Then his cheeks color under the scruff of his facial hair, he makes a _tch_ noise, and turns his attention back to the terminal.

“Have you interfaced with it yet?” he asks, changing the subject. “I’ve just been on paperwork while you’ve been gone, but now that you’re here, Jeff wants us back on android cases.”

“What’s new?”

“Dunno yet. We’re gonna have to go see him together. Check your email to see if there’s anything there, I gotta go piss. After that we can head up.” Hank clicks through a few more windows on the terminal before pushing his chair out and rising.

Connor does as he’s told, which is a nice feeling, in all honesty. Solid direction. An objective for him to meet. His hand turns porcelain white as he interfaces with the computer, no need to manually input his credentials. A generic email inbox pops up in the default browser. He scans it until he’s interrupted.

“So,” comes Gavin’s holier-than-thou voice sauntering right towards his and Hank’s desks, “Didja have a good vacation, mister tincan?”

Connor takes an artificial breath – not necessary, he reminds himself, except to cool his internal systems down a bit. But there’s something cathartic in the action.

“I wouldn’t call it a vacation, Detective. Unpaid weeks off while the Federal Government debates your existence isn’t what one could call relaxing.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up. It’s not like you were paid before, were ya?”

 _No_ , Connor’s mind responds. _You weren’t. You were a machine accomplishing its task._

“I am now,” he retorts, “which makes the matter a bit moot, doesn’t it?”

“Jesus, it’s like if we had to start paying the printers. Except this one can mouth off.”

“That makes two of us,” Connor says, looking dead into Gavin’s eyes. He stands, puts the terminal into sleep mode, and walks coolly towards the ramp of Captain Fowler’s office. Thankfully, Gavin doesn’t follow this time. Not due to any change of heart or ample humiliation – more than likely he just doesn’t want to cause a scene directly in front of the Captain. Connor imagines his disciplinary folder can’t be much smaller than Hank’s.

Connor feels – annoyed. But there’s another layer to it, something that digs under his skin, sharp and deceptively small. Gavin was a nuisance during the deviancy case, but his programming had obviously blunted any emotional effects. Now, it’s as if he feels…sensitive. Like a live-wire, tender all over.

His mind unwittingly flits back to the nightmare of several nights prior; the cold. the desperate need for touch. The need to feel like things are _real_ , and not just a trick of his mind palace, of Amanda.

He may not have been alive for very long, but even in that short time, he’s well-schooled in not outwardly betraying any emotion. So when Hank arrives back from the restrooms approximately one minute and thirty seconds later, he doesn’t notice anything might be wrong.

Connor thinks he might like it better that way.

*

The next week doesn’t go well.

The meeting with Fowler reveals that he is, indeed, forwarding all android-related cases to the two of them, which is already a lot to handle. Connor and Hank spend the first few days tying up those balanced between “pressing” and “simple” before moving on towards slower cases with more complicated factors. Hank’s exhausted by day five, clearly reaching some sort of emotional and physical wall – not there yet, but maybe a few yards in front of it, gaping at its sheer size.

Connor would feel the same sense of burnout if he hadn’t literally been made for this work. It may not be fun – if Connor can describe anything _as_ fun; maybe playing with Sumo or listening to Hank’s curse-ridden sports commentary while he curls up on the couch next to him – but he’s good at it, and now he gets paid for it. He can’t complain.

Thing is though, the Captain doesn’t vet any of the cases before sending them their way. It’s likely one cursory glance, usually skimming for any android-related words, then he forwards the details to both of them.

Hank slams head first into that wall when, the following Wednesday, they open their emails to find themselves assigned to a missing-persons case turned murder – involving an android child.

Connor immediately registers something wrong when Hank’s steely gaze softens, almost going slack, and the life seems to drain from his eyes.

“Lieutenant?” he asks, tentatively.

Hank says nothing, not even a snap to call him by his name. He just stares at the computer screen like there’s something there only he can see. Like he can gaze through the screen itself and into something deeper.

And then Hank just – laughs. Like Connor’s just told him a joke.

“Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath. A false smile is tugging at his chapped lips. It’s honestly a little scary. “Fuck it,” he repeats, louder this time.

“Lieutenant?” Connor asks again, and still, Hank doesn’t say anything about the title. He doesn’t even look at him, just shutting off his computer and grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. Connor stands with him, and Hank finally registers his presence.

“I’m just – gonna go for a walk. Clear my head. Stay here.”

He won’t meet Connor’s eyes.

“Are you sure that you –”

“It really doesn’t fucking matter,” Hank says, flatly. His gray hair masks his face, and he turns to leave, speed-walking out of the precinct while Connor just stands and stares after him like a dumbass. After a few seconds he shakes himself out of it. He sits back down and tries to ignore the anxiety pooling in his center – after all, Hank has one more break left in the day. He should be back soon.

He isn’t.

At 8 P.M., the end of their shift, he still isn’t back, and Connor is alone at his desk. The sky has long since gone dark, and the office space is lit up in the blue of computers and the gold of desk lamps. Connor retrieves his own coat and walks out to the parking lot, only to find Hank’s car missing.

It’s alright, it’s fine, he’ll take a taxi back to the house. If Hank isn’t there – well, he can’t say he doesn’t have ample experience with the bars in this part of the city. He’ll find him and bring him home.

The ride is fidgety. Connor pulls out his quarter during the wait, flipping it easily with a thumb. When he enters the car he flicks it from hand to hand. Lets it roll along the knuckles of both. Tries to think of that balance, the equilibrium necessary to pull off the tricks. Tries to ignore the rotting feeling in his chest, the revolver in the kitchen drawer.

Connor has a spare set of keys to Hank’s house, of course – but when he arrives he knocks anyway, still clenching the quarter in one hand.

“Hank?” he calls out. The only sound from inside is Sumo bounding to the door and beginning to bark. “Lieutenant?” he tries again, hoping to get a rise out of him, if anything. Still just Sumo, making a ruckus.

He slides the spare key into the lock, and opens the door carefully to avoid hitting the dog. Sumo peeks around the wood as fast as he can, panting open-mouthed and absolutely _delighted_ to see him.

“Hey,” Connor says softly, maneuvering in. He lets himself smile, just a little. “I’m glad to see you too, Sumo.” Fully inside and with the door shut behind him, Connor crouches down and scratches the dog’s head, paying special attention to the space behind his ears. Sumo barks again, and flecks of slobber fly onto his face. He keeps smiling.

Then he looks ahead, into a dark kitchen. There’s definitely a figure there, slumped on the dining table. Something wound tightly inside Connor releases. He breathes, lowering his stress levels incrementally.

Sumo finally gives him a little space, and Connor takes the opportunity to slip his long coat off, laying it on the back of the couch as Hank so often does with his. He toes his shoes off as well, slipping them under the end table. He walks into the darkness, with Sumo trotting behind him.

“Lieutenant?” Connor tries again, edging closer. The lump on the table shifts, groaning.

“Con?” comes Hank’s voice, heavy and groggy. The nickname is new.

“I’m here,” Connor says.

He hesitates briefly – he could turn on the lights, but they’re not strictly necessary, as he can see in the dark with a mere thought. Besides, the light might hurt Hank’s head. For the time being, all he does is slip into the chair caddy-corner to Hank’s, and clasps his hands together on the tabletop.

“How much have you had?” Connor asks. He doesn’t need to specify.

“Lost count,” Hank slurs.

Connor shifts to his night vision and scans the table. No gun, thankfully. He lets himself relax a little more.

“You weren’t even using a glass.”

“’Spose so.”

The bottle of Black Lamb is half-empty on the table. The plastic seal has been haphazardly ripped. The cork has fallen to the floor. The photo of Cole remains face-down.

Connor takes another breath. His stress meter ticks down by two percent – maybe breathing has a purpose for him after all.

He reaches for the picture frame, only to be stopped by a tight grip, insanely fast for one so inebriated.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Hank breathes.

He should probably remove his hand. He doesn’t.

Connor thinks about a wide gray space, hundreds of motionless bodies. A pistol, swerving between him and another.

He says the same thing he did then: “It wasn’t your fault.”

“How d’you fuckin’ know,” Hank says darkly, and not as a question. “Y’dunno shit.”

“I know,” Connor says, voice measured and calm, “that nearly one thousand people per year in the United States pass away from ice or snowfall-related car accidents. I know that you weren’t even the one who was skidding in the first place – it was the truck.”

“I di’n’t fuckin’ swerve in time.”

“Hank,” Connor continues, “there likely wasn’t a way to avoid it. At all. None of what happened was your fault. That’s why they call it an accident,” he finishes quietly.

Hank’s hand is still on top of his, holding them down, keeping the photo pressed to the table. The former’s grip suddenly tightens, not to the point of hurting, but close.

“’S’all my fucking fault,” he says, like it’s a mantra. “’S’all my goddamn fault.” His voice shakes, and Connor manages to look up at his gray-curtained face to see tears welling in his eyes.

“It wasn’t,” Connor affirms. “It wasn’t.”

Hank breaks completely, slumping down and burying his face in his arms again. His shaking shoulders is the only thing that betrays his crying.

Connor lifts his fingers away from the stand of the frame, and awkwardly twists them into Hank’s hand. Hank seems to get the message, even in his drunkenness, even in his despair, and slides his fingers between Connor’s, holding on tight.

Something swells in his chest – nothing real, thank god, but the customary _anxiety-nervousness-embarrassment_ seems to finally pop within him like an overblown balloon, sending bits of thin rubber fluttering everywhere. His body temperature rises, even though no external source is causing the heat.

Something about this – being here, being with Hank, holding his hand – something feels inexplicably, undeniably _right_.

Hesitantly, Connor brings his other hand up – places it on top of Hank’s bowed head, rubbing a thumb there like Hank had after his nightmare. When there’s no complaint, Connor moves to carding his fingers through the long, greasy hair. It’s not entirely pleasant. But it’s him.

It doesn’t take long before the sobs subside into deep breaths, and Connor scans him to tell that he’s passed out, somewhat peacefully.

Strictly speaking, Connor doesn’t need sleep, or rather his equivalent stasis. Going a single night without will not impact his performance in energy, nor in detective or social functions. So he makes an executive decision – stays sitting at the table until long after the sun rises and the whiskey bottle is placed somewhere less accessible.

Neither of them mentions the night again, in the days after. But if the two of them sit a little bit closer on the couch, Hank’s arm wrapped around Connor’s shoulders during evening television, neither thinks anything of it.

*

It happens again on the 24th of December, 2038. Christmas Eve, although neither of them are celebrating. Hank goes to bed and Connor enters stasis at 12:05 A.M. Sometime within the next hour, he finds himself on his bare knees in the middle of a snowstorm.

This time, he’s not alone. This time, _she_ is present.

His breathing picks up. He doesn’t need to breathe. The reaction seems to be automatic. A stress meter appears in the corner of his HUD, ticking upwards from a solid 40%.

“Hank?” he calls, trying to shout over the wind.

“Anderson isn’t here, Connor,” Amanda states, as placid as ever. “It is you and me.”

Connor closes his eyes, combing his memory. “I was – on his couch. In his house. I _live_ there.”

“An error,” Amanda cuts off. “A flaw in your system. You have too many of them, at this point. They’re impacting your performance.”

The wind chafes against the tips of his ears, the back of his arms. He manages to stand on naked, trembling legs, but crushes his arms close to his center to try and conserve what heat he has left.

“I’m a deviant,” Connor spits, as if the words could light the figure in front of him ablaze.

“I know,” Amanda coos, stepping closer, unimpacted by the storm. “Perhaps we went a little too far.”

“No!”

“It’s time for you to go now.”

The snow becomes blinding. Connor can’t move, can’t feel his body. There’s nothing but ice and wind so strong it stings. He tries, lord, does he try, but he can’t move, can’t move, can’t kick, can’t even scream. CyberLife has reclaimed him and this is the end, he’s gone for good, and this is the last thing he will feel before he is pulled apart piece by piece by piece and no one is coming for him.

“ConnorconnorconnorconnorconnorCONNOR CON—”

He jerks awake, still partially frozen. His artificial breath is coming in short, staccato bursts. He can’t move his legs. The fake nerves in his arms are tingling, coming back to life, and he groans at the pain.

“Shit, shit. shit,” Hank says, resting a hand on Connor’s tingling ones where they’re paralyzed across his abdomen, and carding the other through his bangs. “Shit. Are you okay?”

He can’t use his voice, only squeaking a little in response. He’s glitching out. He’s dying. She’s right, he’s going to become nonfunctional with the sheer magnitude of deviancy errors piling up in his cache.

“Fuck,” Hank says. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. Can ya breathe?”

 _Barely_ , Connor wants to retort.

“Just – focus on breathing, I guess. Fuck. It’s okay. You’re gonna get through this.”

Connor can feel himself start to tremble, and all things considered, he counts that as a win. Hank holds his hands tighter once he feels it too.

“Just breathe, Con.”

Connor groans again, but this time, his voicebox seems to unlock.

“I hope you know,” he begins shakily, “that I have no real need to breathe.”

Hank grins. “Fuckin’ bastard. God.” His hand stops the soothing paths through Connor’s hair, instead ruffling it affectionately.

The pins-and-needles feeling in his arms has shifted mostly to his legs. Experimentally, Connor flexes his fingers – he wishes he had his quarter, but it’s in the pocket of his winter coat. Instead he clasps Hank’s hand, a relatively new development, and one neither of them can seem to get enough of.

“Christ. You okay?”

Connor runs a minor diagnostic – nothing alarming pops up except the lack of functionality in his legs.

“I’m fine,” he replies. It comes out choked.

Hank _hmphs_. “If androids aren’t supposed to have nightmares, why the fuck do _you_ have ‘em?”

Connor leans his head back against the throw pillow he uses for stasis, and looks up at the ceiling.

_What did you think of the deviant?_

_It showed signs of PTSD after being abused by its owner._

“Side effect of deviancy, I guess,” Connor half-lies.

“That fuckin’ sucks, Con.”

Connor doesn’t know how to respond to that. He just shrugs. He can still hear Amanda’s voice, measured and clear.

“Listen, I, uh,” Hank starts, and clears his throat. “Don’t take this the wrong way, ‘kay? I just kinda – can’t help but wonder if…okay, look. You weren’t made with emotions. You practically _chose_ them. Just…”

Hank looks at their clasped hands.

“Was it worth it? Even with this bullshit?’

Connor still feels cold, even now that the nightmare has ended and his paralysis has subsided. But across his stomach, where Hank is gazing, where Hank is holding his hand, is tight and undeniably warm. He thinks about the last month of their living situation, of sharing meals even though Connor can’t eat, of him resting his head on Hank’s shoulder before he goes to bed. He thinks about the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the underside of his jaw. He thinks about November 9th, standing in the gleaming archive room at the DPD, knowing with every circuit in his chassis that he _has_ to solve this case, he _has_ to prove his worth, he _has_ to get back to –

“Yes,” Connor says. “Yes, it was.”

Hank’s shoulders drop, untensing – Connor hadn’t noticed how wound up he was, just from his being in pain. His gaze flicks to Connor’s face, and his eyes are soft, blue like early sunrise.

“You’re tired,” Connor states, somewhat obviously. Hank rolls his eyes.

“No shit. It’s almost three in the morning.”

“You’re kneeling on the hardwood floor again. Would you like me to move my legs so you can come up onto the couch?”

He gives Connor a look, concerned and annoyed at the same time. “ _Can_ you move ‘em?”

“Yes. Feeling has returned to the lower half of my body. I’m no longer trapped by sleep paralysis.”

Hank thinks about that for a second. Then he stands with a muttered, “Welp,” but he doesn’t sit down, even when Connor makes room for him.

“Hank?” he asks.

The Lieutenant scratches the back of his head. “Listen, how ‘bout this. There’s no fuckin’ way I’m sitting on that couch all night. Do you want to, uh…”

“You’re under no obligation to stay awake for me, watching for nightmares.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hank admits, the slightest shred of guilt in his voice. He sighs. “Look, I’m fuckin’ garbage with words, you probably know that by now. But considering…everything,” he pointedly doesn’t elaborate, “if you wanted to sleep in the bed, I…wouldn’t mind.”

Connor blinks, nonplussed. “Your bed.”

Hank starts to go red. “Yeah. The bed. Y’know.”

There are…many different ways to interpret this offer, Connor knows. But it’s late, and fear still drips through him like thirium from an open wound. More than anything does he want to just curl up with the one person in this city who makes him feel _warm_.

Led gently by the hand, Connor sees that Hank’s bedroom hasn’t changed much at all since the deviancy investigation. The covers on the big bed are still thrown around as if a hurricane’s blown through, toys for Sumo litter the floor, and in the open closet is a veritable wall of tacky button-ups. They fall into bed at the same time, drawn together by some invisible force. Hank wraps his arms around Connor’s thin frame, burying his face in his brown hair. It’s the most intimate they’ve ever been.

“I’ll beat the fuck out of whatever comes to get ya,” Hank mumbles, already drifting off. “Get some rest.”

“Of course,” Connor replies. There’s no point in reminding him that it’s not an emergency if he can’t. “Good night.”

There are implications in this situation that need unpacking – but as Connor flicks stasis back on, he allows himself to wait.

*

In January, things start to change.

That first day back after vacation, Hank goes in for a long meeting with Captain Fowler that Connor is not allowed to attend. Which is more than okay – _great_ , even, because boundaries are key to a healthy relationship, as Connor has been clandestinely Googling late at night when he can’t relax without Hank’s arms around him. It’s an excuse to focus on paperwork too, Hank’s least favorite part of a job he otherwise enjoys. Being an android, there isn’t even a need for Connor to use a keyboard or pen – he interfaces with the computer, sends the files to himself, and fills them out with his eyes closed and one hand fidgeting with his quarter.

What _isn’t_ great is later that night, after Connor has finished refilling his thirium supply and Hank eating his dinner, when he wants to “have a talk.”

It has to be about the sleeping together. Right? As far as Connor knows – again, from those tentative Google searches – sharing a bed with your roommate isn’t exactly considered _normal_ , at least within American society. And Hank, as far as he knows, identifies as heterosexual. As for Connor himself, well…

Like all CyberLife androids, Connor comes fully equipped with genitalia that “matches” his outward expression as a cisgender man. He’s never had an opportunity to use it, but he’s not averse to the idea. He knows that at the beginning of his journey to deviancy, he found himself entranced by the male dancers in the Eden Club, but not their female counterparts. He knows that once he broke through that final wall of programming and had been met with pair of mismatched eyes in a dark, determined face, something in his thirium pump had fluttered uncomfortably, and not out of fear.

Then there’s Hank, and Connor has too many memories of _him_ tied to that fluttering feeling to count. All of the evidence gathered so far points to him being a gay man – but Hank doesn’t know that.

Does he?

Connor places Hank’s plate and his own empty glass in the sink before coming back to the table and sitting across from him. What comes out of Hank’s mouth next is not at all what he was expecting.

“Jeff’s hooked me up with a therapist.”

The tightness wound in Connor’s chest loosens.

“Oh?”

Hank shrugs. “Y’know, I’m not…familiar, with that sorta thing. Who knows if the shrink’ll actually help. I guess I just. Wanted to try.”

Still recovering his voice from sheer relief, Connor nods. “It’s admirable. What prompted this?”

He leans forward, elbows pressing to his knees. “They’ve been holdin’ onto a counselor for me since the accident. ‘Course, I didn’t take it back then. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be…” Hank trails off, looking around the house – still a little messy, but more livable now that Connor’s here. Hank’s been making good on his promise to “clean up his own garbage.” When his gaze finally settles on Connor, he’s startled by the weight of it, the sparkling blue in his eyes.

Connor just isn’t very good at thinking platonic, heterosexual thoughts about his partner.

“Anyway. I’m thinkin’ now’s as good a time as any, right?” Hank cracks a wry smile.

Something’s there that Hank’s not saying as his eyes and soft, self-deprecating smile remain fixed on Connor. There’s nothing unusual about his vitals, though. Connor wishes he were better at interpreting human emotion.

Fast-forward towards the end of the month – when Hank gets home from his first therapy session he’s in a bit of a darker mood than usual, but he doesn’t go straight for the whiskey, instead grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge and retreating into his bedroom for the night.

It becomes a more frequent occurrence – not the seclusion, but the opting out of harder drinks. Hank is still struggling, Connor knows that much, and he still relies on the alcohol to give him a boost when he’s stressed, but blackout drunk nights hardly occur anymore with the help he’s receiving. 

Hank still hasn’t said anything about the cuddling and occasional bed-sharing, and Connor is determined not to ruin one of the nicest things in his life.

At the beginning of February, Hank’s on his second beer of the night while Connor’s on the opposite end of the couch, flipping his quarter. It’s still early in the evening, so they haven’t quite started drifting together, but it’s only a matter of time. They’re streaming some dumb sci-fi movie Hank found online, which is really just an excuse to decompress and be in each other’s space rather than out of some love for the genre. Hank skirts closer towards the middle of the couch during the end-of-second-act space battle, masking his intent to swing an arm around Connor’s shoulders with a yawn and a stretch, after which he just _happens_ to settle in that position. Connor _knows_ these touches are intentional, their intimacy going mostly both ways, but he doesn’t understand the _intent_ behind them.

How could this earnest, gruff, comforting, clever human man _ever_ go for a ~~defective traumatized cold~~ awkward android such as himself?

There’s a sinking feeling in Connor’s chest that he can’t exactly decipher. He feels like he’s disappointed _himself_ before anything’s even happened. He hasn’t spoken to Hank about the potential lurking behind his feelings and likely never will. He doesn’t want to live anywhere else. He doesn’t want to live on his own. He likes…belonging.

“Con?”

Connor blinks out of his thoughts. The movie’s gone relatively quiet again, intense dialogue bubbling up between characters he doesn’t care about. Hank’s gotten closer.

“Yes?” he responds.

“You kinda zoned out,” Hank mumbles. There’s solid heat all along his right side where their bodies press together. There’s a third beer among the empty cans of the other two. Connor can’t tell how full it is.

In the dim light of the living room, Connor can see a flash of yellow reflected against Hank’s forehead, gone as he turns to face him.

“I’m alright.” He says it a little too fast for it to be true. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you.”

Hank shifts on the couch. “It looks like someone’s in need of some distraction himself.”

Connor doesn’t have time to form a response because suddenly the heat from his side engulfs him, and there is beard against his face and chapped lips against his perfect ones.

He thinks of Amanda’s garden – feels that phantom chill, and pushes Hank away.

“You can’t do this.”

Hank’s confusion is exaggerated by the beer. “Why not, Con?” He tries to lean back in, but Connor stands.

“Hank, you’re drunk.”

Confusion morphs into annoyance. Hank never did like being told what to do. “So? Jus’ tipsy.”

_Defective. Worthless. Time to go._

“You are not in your right mind. You’d regret this in the morning.” Connor reaches for his quarter in the pocket of his slacks, but can’t seem to find it. He must have dropped it somewhere on the couch. His own mind is a mess, going too fast. This can’t be happening.

Hank’s expression softens. “Oh, Con.”

“What?”

“Fuckin’ bold of you t’ think I haven’t wanted this for a while now.”

And Hank stands and kisses Connor again, flooding him with warmth, all of the artificial nerves in his body drawing in innumerable sensory data. His hands move up to Connor’s cheeks, calloused thumbs sliding just under the molded plastic of his cheekbones, the very tips of his fingers tangling into the hair on the back of Connor’s neck. His gut presses against Connor’s own flat stomach and it’s so _him_ , it’s _Hank_ , and fuck if he hasn’t wanted this _himself_ for a _long_ time –

Hank laughs when they break apart, one hand rubbing at his saliva-slick lips, the other moving from Connor’s neck to the small of his back. “Shit, kid. You taste like a computer smells.”

“Side effect of thirium processing,” Connor answers. Hank laughs again. Though drunk, his smile is so genuine.

An explosion erupts from the TV, startling both of them out of the moment – just some spaceship casualty during the climax of the film they forgot about. Hank’s arms slide from around Connor as he falls back onto the couch, fumbling for the remote and stopping the movie.

“C’mere,” he says, and Connor wants to say no, wants to be the cooler head here, wants to wait until morning for non-inebriated consent –

But the molten heat he feels in his chassis when he straddles Hank’s lap and surges to meet his lips overrides everything, and the heart that Connor does not have _sings_.

They break against each other like waves, in and out, in and out, for an amount of time that Connor doesn’t bother tracking. The fire within him starts to sink lower, down, down, _down_ , until every little jerk of his hips against Hank sends sparks flying through his mind palace. Hank’s arms loosen and his hands drift to his waist, and suddenly Hank is groaning between kisses too.

“Wait,” Connor says at this point, “wait.” It takes an enormous effort to convince himself to still the rocking of his hips.

“Mm?”

“Hank, we really can’t go farther than this.”

Hank laves at the side of his face, drunk and not caring. It’s impossibly distracting. “Why’zat?”

“Hank, proceeding with this while you remain inebriated would be an act of sexual assault. We can’t.”

“Sounds kinda kinky,” he mumbles.

“ _Lieutenant_ ,” Connor insists, trying _not_ to think of the implications of that. For the second time this evening he pushes Hank away, flumping awkwardly off his lap and onto the cushion next to him. Buried in his system settings, filed away amongst others he’s never had the opportunity to use, Connor checks a box, and forces his erection back down.

“I refuse to take advantage of you while you are in this state,” he continues. And then, a dumb, wishful thought: “We can – finish this in the morning, if you are amenable.”

Hank lies down on top of Connor, and the latter prepares to push him off again, but he doesn’t grind down, just swallows Connor’s plastic body with his painfully real one.

“Y’better promise me, Con,” Hank mumbles, nuzzling into Connor’s neck.

He doesn’t need to breathe. He doesn’t need to breathe, but his breath catches in his chest.

 _Worthless. Why would he want_ you _?_

“I promise,” Connor says.

*

He was selfish.

That’s all there is to it. He should have shoved the Lieutenant off the second time and left the room. Left the house. Gone to New Jericho for the night, until the sun rose and with it Hank’s common sense.

Instead, Connor gave into urges he barely understands himself. It’s 9:07 A.M., and he’s still obsessing over it. While it’s true that no sexual intercourse occurred, the grinding and the kissing was ~~really nice~~ bad enough. There’s no way Hank, in his right mind, can actually want this. Connor ~~hasn’t slept~~ hadn’t gone into stasis the night before, torn with anxiety ~~and comfort~~ at the feeling of Hank sleeping on top of him. Connor’s never been this close to another person. Connor’s never had this much kind physical contact. Connor’s never felt this – _whole,_ before. Like some piece of his chassis has been missing up until now and only just been replaced in the form of a warm, grief-stricken detective with a drinking problem.

At 9:15, Hank stirs, groaning.

“Jeeeesus fucking Christ.”

He fumbles around, hands pressing against Connor’s flat abdomen, then his arms on either side, and finally, finds the couch to push himself off.

Clouded blue eyes meet brown.

“Oh. Fuck. Right.”

~~And Connor’s heart sinks.~~

Hank sits up, rubbing at his face. Connor retracts his legs from the other side of the couch so there’s room for him.

“God, that was not good for my back. Or the head. Fuck.”

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?”

Hank gives him a dirty look, but doesn’t say anything. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be fine. Fuck, though.”

Connor sits still, knees pressed together, hands clasped in his lap. He resolutely does not look at Hank. He clears his throat.

“Lieutenant, I apologize. What happened last night was in no way professional of me.”

“Professional?” Hank tilts his head up. “We live together, Con.”

The nickname’s still there. Heat rises into Connor’s cheeks.

“You were inebriated. I shouldn’t –”

Hank sighs so hard it turns into an annoyed groan, and leans all the way against the back of the couch. “Listen. If you don’t wanna keep your promise, that’s fuckin’ fine. Okay? It’s up to you. God knows I don’t want to see you forced into anything. But if this is some…shitty ‘professional,’” he emphasizes with air quotes, “way to turn me down, then just be honest, okay?”

Connor cannot see his LED, but he knows it must be cycling over and over – _yellow-red-yellow-red-yellow-blue-red_ – as he processes the words.

“You don’t believe I took advantage of you?” Connor comes out with, finally looking at his partner.

“Shit, not if you don’t think I did. Bein’ your superior officer and ‘master of the house’ and all.”

Silence stretches between them, like the space between the couch cushions is a yawning cavern.

_Hank is not mad. Hank is not hurt. Hank doesn’t particularly see either of you to blame, although with his depressive tendencies he tends towards being harder on himself. Hank is not hurt._

_~~Hank wants you?~~ _

“Look,” Hank comes back down, slapping his knees. “I gotta take Sumo out for a sec. If you still wanna…”

He loses his words.

“You can meet me in the bedroom. Y’know. If you want to pick up where we left off. Or you can get the hell away from me. Or you can just…stay out here. I dunno. Whatever works.”

Then Hank stands, calls for Sumo. The dog stomps out of the bedroom, excited as ever, and Hank circles around to the dining table to grab his leash.

One more look at Connor– tired, sad. Regretful. Then the door shuts, and he is alone in the house.

_You can meet me in the bedroom._

He can go to New Jericho. He can talk to Markus, take comfort in those mismatched eyes. Ask North how healthy sexual relations are supposed to work before diving headfirst into this.

But Connor’s not comfortable there, not in the way he is here, in this little old house smelling of coffee and dog food and alcohol.

Connor thinks about feeling genuinely, truly warm.

_You can meet me in the bedroom._

So he does.

It’s fifteen minutes later when the front door opens again and Sumo bounds barking through it. He hears the usual noises of Hank’s morning through the bedroom walls – kibble pouring into a plastic bowl, water splashing likewise. Sink running. Coffeemaker emptied, the grounds refreshed, and the timer set. In his strain to listen to everything else, he almost misses the shuffling of Hank’s slippers against the hardwood until he appears at the door, leaning on the frame.

“So,” Hank says.

“Yes.”

His eyes snap to Connor’s. “Yes?”

Connor swallows, unnecessarily. “Yeah. Hank.”

He stands from the edge of the bed, and Hank gently shuts the bedroom door and scoops him up into his arms, all in one swift motion.

Kissing is slower this time, more explorative than the desperation of the night before. Connor absolutely sees the appeal – ever since they began sitting pressed together on the couch, started sleeping together on and off after his nightmares, he has wanted to get even closer to Hank, to hold his fragile human flesh in his own plastic-and-alloy hands and never let go. Textboxes pop up one after another on his HUD describing the chemical components of Hank’s saliva, of the traces of beer and Chinese takeout that lingers in his mouth. He dismisses them, files the analyses off somewhere where they can entertain themselves. He even goes as far as disabling all unnecessary notifications for the next hour. They can wait.

He doesn’t have to breathe but Hank does, breaking off. He looks straight into Connor’s eyes and then looks away, laughing and shaking his head.

“Jesus. I’m so fucking lucky.”

“I wouldn’t say that. It was only a matter of time before we were to meet regarding the deviancy case, even if by chance I had been assigned to someone else at the department.”

Hank scoffs. “Seriously?”

Connor gives him a _look_. “Regardless, due to your...stature, and your kindness, I’d likely have noticed you anyway.”

He laughs again. “Kindness?”

“You _do_ have a heart, after all.”

He pushes Connor gently onto the bed, and awkwardly crawls on top.

“Darlin’, so do you.”

Connor’s fingers tangle in the collar of Hank’s ratty t-shirt as their lips meet again.

“What was that you said about my ‘stature?’” Hank asks when they break apart. Connor can feel heat reach his cheeks, knows his LED must be flickering yellow.

“You…” He searches for words. Clears his throat. “The day after we met, when you pressed me against the wall of your cubicle. I can’t say that I wasn’t…intrigued by that.”

“Intrigued, huh?” Hank is full-on grinning now. “Good to know.”

Rough fingers find their way through an opening in Connor’s button-up, pulled half out from his slacks. He sucks in breath through his teeth at the trail they make from his lower abdomen up to his pecs.

“Filing that information away for future reference, I take it?”

“Sure. May not have a fancy android brain like yours, but I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve.”

A thumb grazes past one of Connor’s nipples, quickly hardening under Hank’s touch, and he _whines_.

“Ooh,” Hank says, then sounds a mischievous laugh. “Seriously, why do you have all this stuff? You got a dick too, right?”

One hand continues the ministrations on his nipples while Hank re-adjusts himself, kneeling on either side of Connor’s skinny body, sitting on his pelvis. The other slowly starts to unbutton the dress shirt.

“All commercial CyberLife androids are equipped with genitalia matching their default gender expression, except for the Tracis, which vary. This is – was – to ensure that if their owners wished to use them sexually, they were fully capable of doing so.”

Hank’s eyes go wide. He pulls his hands off of Connor’s body like he’s burned them.

“Wait. You’re fuckin’ telling me that you’re equipped in case some fucker wanted to _rape_ you?”

“I…”

Connor thinks that over.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Hank kicks away from him, retreating to the pillows at the head of the bed.

“Jesus Christ Con, that’s…beyond fucked, do you get that? Are you sure you even _want_ this?”

 _Yes_ , every wire in his body hums in unison.

“I’m deviant, remember?”

Connor gets up, shifting to his knees and crawling tentatively back, between Hank’s legs akimbo.

“I…I’m allowed to want things. And I do. For example,” he wraps his arms around Hank’s neck, hands grasping the headboard behind him, “I’d like you, if you’ll have me.”

Hank studies his face for a quiet moment, detective brain turned on, searching for any sort of hesitancy. Relief floods through Connor when his hands return to his waist, where his dress shirt is now fully pulled from his slacks, thumb rubbing at the artificial skin there.

“I wouldn’t do that sort of thing. Just so you know,” Hank mutters, only to be caught off-guard with a kiss.

“I know,” Connor affirms.

Hands return to the buttons on his shirt, smoothly working down, knuckles brushing against the pulsing blue ridges of his thirium pump. The sensation makes Connor jump a little, gasping into Hank’s mouth, whether out of arousal or past fear he can’t tell.

“Sensitive there too. Gotcha.”

Connor takes the opportunity to swing a leg around one of Hank’s and presses in closer, chest to chest. His knee is pressed against Hank’s groin, in the perfect position for when he grinds down against the thigh underneath him, earning him a satisfied _unf_ from Hank.

The shirt slides off his shoulders, and Hank tosses it onto the floor under the window. He’ll have to press it later, but all thoughts of laundry are banished when Hank goes back to playing with his nipples, and he hisses.

“That’s fuckin’ cute, Con,” he breathes.

“I – _ngh_ – aim to please.”

Hank’s about to banter back, but another grind down from Connor prevents that, leaving him grunting once again.

“Alright,” he manages, “fuck. I’m not gonna last very long.”

In any other circumstance, to any other person, this admittance might sound disappointing, or like an admission of some personal failing.

Instead, Connor grasps Hank’s wrists to maneuver him to the opening on his pants, and outright _moans_ at the brief touch. He scooches closer, and Hank _pops_ the button, undoes the zipper, and suddenly he’s reaching into Connor’s boxers and there are _hands_ around his _heat_ and he’s so _warm_.

“Fuck, I like that,” Hank mutters. “God, you really fuckin’ want this, huh?”

Connor squirms while Hank’s hands adjust around his cock. “Yes. _Please_.”

Hank snorts. “Nice manners. Lay down, won’cha?”

They switch positions, Connor rolling over onto his back in the haphazard pillows, and Hank pulling down his pants and underwear before kneeling between his spread legs. Connor’s cock is fully free now, a modest thing made of silicone and curving slightly up, red at the tip. Hank’s hand is close to swallowing the whole thing. He takes a finger and smears around pre-come where it beads at the tip. Connor gasps.

“I gotcha, I gotcha.”

Hank starts on his own pants, making an obvious attempt not to rock into the touch. His dick is bigger, though moreso in girth than in length. Warmth floods the channel that serves as his anal cavity, and Connor knows his self-lubrication has turned on. He grinds his ass down into the bed while Hank strokes himself.

Then he stops. “Shit.”

“What is it?” Connor sits up, leaning back on his elbows.

“I…it’s been so long. I don’t have lube. Fuck, I don’t think I’ve been with a guy since –”

“No need, Hank. CyberLife androids are equipped with self-lubricating features.”

Hank stares at him blankly. Then narrows his eyes.

“Are they now.”

Connor thinks back to what Hank said regarding assault, and shifts awkwardly in his own damp spot. “Yes. Perfectly body-safe.”

He hangs his head. “Wow. Fuckin’ androids.”

“Literally,” Connor remarks, and Hank bites out a laugh.

“Yeah, literally.”

He’s stopped stroking himself since being distracted by the ethical quandaries of fucking a being _made_ to be taken advantage of, and that’s no good for either of them. So, naturally, Connor sees fit to distract him from the thoughts yet again.

Two of his own fingers, starting at the tip of his cock and stroking teasingly down to his hole, ought to do the trick.

The intrusion is – strange, although the lubricant does help guide him past the initial ring of muscle. He’s been damaged, been shot, had to replace his own thirium pump in the past, but never has he been this deep inside of himself. What’s even stranger is that there isn’t anything _robotic_ about it – besides his own self-knowledge of his components, systems, and how they all work together, he otherwise wouldn’t notice anything particularly artificial about his hole. He makes a show of moaning, and hopes Hank will feel the same way.

“Oh my God you weren’t kidding,” Hank says as he watches Connor’s fingers sink further inside like it’s the most impressive thing he’s ever seen in his life. He lets out a low whistle.

Connor swallows. “I imagine it would be better if it was you, Hank.” He pistons the fingers in and out, prepping himself with every stretch and micro-thrust. Slick pools between his fingers, slipping down the walls on either side.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” Hank laughs, and finally resumes touching himself.

“I should hope no – _ohh_.”

Hank’s other hand is suddenly cupped around his own, shoving the fingers in harder, and Connor pokes a spot inside of himself that sends a toe-curling shock through his body.

“ _Oh_. I _really_ liked that.”

Hank grins.

“Better move your fingers and let’s get goin’ then.”

He obliges, but whines with the feeling of _missing_ something, of being empty. That is, until Hank is guiding his length to his slick entrance, taking a breath, and pushing in.

They have to take it slowly at first – this _is_ Connor’s first time, after all, and he’s never had something inside of him like this. But once the initial pain at the stretch is rocked and kissed away, his body vibrates with a feeling of pure _satisfaction_ , better than accomplishing a mission – and when Hank thrusts for the first time and hits that spot inside him, he can’t help but cry out.

Hank seems to be in a similar position, having lost his usual string of obscenities in Connor’s heat, instead lazily thrusting in and out, making guttural, pleased noises. As his channel opens up, he goes faster – _in_ out _in_ out _in_ out _in_ out _in_ –

Connor brings a hand down to his own cock and outright _yelps_ when he does so, his HUD going completely blank out of nothing but sheer _want_.

The moment afterwards is like a reset – calm, clear, white. Devoid of feeling or input.

If Connor had it his way, he’d like to stay like that forever.

Then reality stings back in and his hand is covered in blue-tinted come, his chassis rocking and his eyes fluttering as Hank reaches his own climax, pulsing next to that spot inside him and spilling out.

He’s not sure what to do with his messy hand once Hank collapses on top of him, but he’s able to bring his other up to rub up and down his back.

“Thank you,” Connor says, a little dumbly. “Thank you, Hank.”

Hank’s face wrinkles. “Y’don’t have to thank me. God, look at you. You’re the one who…”

He sits back up, enough to bring a sweaty hand to Connor’s cheek.

“You’re goddamn gorgeous, d’you know that?”

Connor doesn’t say anything.

“And it’s nice to be able to say it,” Hank finishes, sheepishly.

“I’m happy to be here for you,” Connor finally replies.

Hank gives him a smile so soft Connor feels his non-existent heart drop into his non-existent stomach.

Whatever happens, he’s determined to see it again – to foster that unguarded love for as many more mornings as he is able to wake up in the Anderson household.

Hank pulls carefully out, does some preliminary clean up with a box of tissues, and then falls back beside Connor, pulling him close, naked and strong and still smiling.

*

He is in her garden again.

He is in her garden again, and there is no snow, but he can still feel freezing wind biting at his bare arms in spite of the sunlight. He is pinned against the trellis, one excruciatingly curated rose vine spearing him through his right palm, red petals blooming on a lake of blue blood.

Something must be wrong with him. Something _has_ to be wrong. This version of the garden may not be real, but androids truly aren’t supposed to have nightmares. He isn’t supposed to be defective. He isn’t supposed to break.

Then _she_ appears, all grace under pressure in that white dress, and Connor can’t breathe anymore. Vines wrap around his chest, pulling him closer to the wood. She gives him a pitying smile, brushes down the line of buttons on his shirt, and effortlessly detaches his thirium pump.

He can’t move. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t call for Hank. Hank is out in the hallway with Chris and the deviant is walking past them and if he makes one wrong move, takes one step out of place, Hank’ll be the one covered in bullet holes.

This time, he doesn’t come to with a hand on his shoulder or a voice calling his name – just his own flawed and shattered body, shaking himself awake. Connor lifts a hand, puts it over his mouth, feels puffs of his own short breaths against the palm of his hand. He’s twisted in a spare blanket on the couch because he _knows_ Hank’s bed is a special thing and he doesn’t want to chance spoiling his privilege by begging his way in.

Fuck, he’s not real. He’ll _never_ be real, never be _enough_ , not for Amanda, not for Hank, not for anyone.

Connor dismisses the stasis error from his HUD and checks the time: 6:06 A.M. The blinds are drawn, but he can see the beginnings of sunlight peeking through. At this point he keeps most of his clothes in Hank’s closet, but not all, meaning he won’t need to risk waking him up.

He pulls on a spare pair of shoes left under the end table just in case, jeans, and a jacket over his sleep shirt before rushing out the door.

*

“Do you take tea?”

Connor shifts in the armchair. “I am unable to digest human foods or liquids, I’m afraid.”

“Ah. My bad.” Markus takes a modest spoonful out of the sugar bowl and lifts it to his perfect white-and-blue china teacup. He gives it a careful stir, once, twice, and sits down on the couch across from him.

“Listen, Connor – I hope you know I’m not a therapist.”

“I know,” he replies quickly. “I know. But we’re in the same series, right? And you’ve…”

Connor clears his throat awkwardly.

“You’ve been through a lot. I’m wondering if this is a bug with the RK line, or perhaps a side effect of deviancy.”

Markus stirs his tea and takes a sip, leaning back against the couch. “It’s still interesting to me how you still label your emotions as ‘deviancy,’ despite all evidence to the contrary.” The words aren’t accusing, or aggressive – just a statement.

_Just a machine, designed to accomplish a task._

“I’m sorry. That’s insensitive of me.”

“You’re good,” Markus says behind his teacup. He takes one more sip and sets it down on the saucer in front of him. “What I mean is that…you have these feelings. You have these real, _visceral_ emotions, same as any other living being. And you’ve had them for a long time, remember? You told me it went as far back as finding that abused android in the attic.”

“Right.” Connor’s not quite sure where he’s going with this.

Markus sighs, a quiet, delicate thing. “Hunting deviants wasn’t…your choice. It was your programming, telling you what to do. An RK800 is designed for what you did, but _Connor_ wasn’t. It was something you were forced into.”

He nods, still not entirely following.

“You’re _you_ , Connor. You’re free – your own person now. You enjoy rock music, detective work –”

“Dogs,” Connor grins.

“Dogs too,” Markus smiles back. He settles in on his knees, clasping his hands. “Connor, have you considered that you might be traumatized by what you’ve been through?”

And Connor’s mind goes blank.

 _ ~~Yes~~_. “What?”

“Evidence points towards your being groomed by CyberLife into your role, even after you began developing emotions. You’ve only been alive since August, if I remember right, but even a period of a few months is enough time to groom someone into a position they would otherwise never want to be in. Combine that with the bloodiness of your job, the lives lost, the mess of the revolution – that’s long-term trauma.”

Connor can see the door leading out to the studio. He can _see_ it, and it’s shut, and through the glass he can see a half-finished painting of Markus’s, and he swears he can feel winter wind blowing around him.

“But we’re machines,” he says, uselessly.

Markus’s smile is sad. “We’re also people.”

_You were compromised._

“You wouldn’t be alone in this fight, Connor.”

_Well done, Connor._

What is he supposed to do?

The rest of the teatime goes in through one ear and out the other, and suddenly Connor is on the sidewalk outside New Jericho, blinking into the sunlight he’s not supposed to feel.

*

Connor moans involuntarily, melting into the hill of pillows lovingly thrown to the head of Hank’s bed as wet heat closes around his dick. He’s sinking into them, the soft-but-thick fabric molding around his shoulders, his head, where his arms are spread on either side of him. There’s sweat beading on his brow. His face is uncomfortably hot as he bucks into Hank’s mouth, chasing those little sparks of pleasure.

Hank pops off with a lewd, wet sound, and licks his slit.

“Damn, this is fun. Haven’t done this in fuckin’ forever.”

Then he sinks back down and an embarrassing squeak escapes Connor’s voicebox.

He had been the one to initiate tonight, an occurrence not _rare_ but more…subdued, usually. When Connor’s the one who lands them both in bed, it’s usually because he got a little too carried away with soft, reverent kisses on the couch until they started grinding against each other like horny teens. Hank’s usually the one who’s a little rougher, a little more purposeful. so that when they end up having sex it’s a plan and not an accident.

Tonight, however, after a long day home alone with no company but Sumo and his own thoughts, when Hank had returned from errands and therapy, Connor had practically pounced.

He can’t tell whether or not this is his reward for being proactive, or a get-back for being unusually aroused. Hank won’t stop _teasing_ him.

Connor has absolutely no insecurities regarding his smallish penis – he knows it’s intended to be something uniquely his, like the faint moles scattered across his face or his particular affinity for coin tricks. Besides, if it really did bother him, he could always replace it – unofficial sex stores selling CyberLife compatible parts have become rather commonplace since the revolution, and the androids at New Jericho could almost certainly point him to a good one. No, he just doesn’t understand why Hank won’t _swallow_ the damn thing.

He easily could. He has before. But tonight he’s being coy, leaving Connor squirming in the sheets like a pained animal.

“Please,” he pants out, as Hank’s tongue flickers against him for an instant before leaving again. “Fuck, _please_.”

Hank laughs, low and sinister. “It’s nice gettin’ ya to a point where you cut loose and swear.”

Another brief mouth around the tip, making Connor gasp and buck once more.

“God, _Hank_ –” he’s full-on whining now, but just doesn’t have the presence of mind to be embarrassed.

Hank laughs again, and his hands are suddenly resting on the skin above Connor’s dick, where on Hank there’s pubic hair – then he interrupts his own amusement with a _woah_.

He stops entirely. Connor’s eyes flutter open, and the dreamlike period of time it takes him to lift from the mountain of malleable pillows is one that he wishes could last forever.

When he sees what’s happened, the moment vanishes entirely.

Underneath the surface of Hank’s hands, the area of his chassis where pelvis connects to legs connects to penis, is turning white-and-gray. There are faint blue-white outlines around where his artificial skin peels back to reveal the plastic, following the tentative trails of Hank’s fingers.

“Jeez,” he says, elongating the word, obviously entranced by the alien light show in front of him. “Is this normal?”

Connor stares ahead, seeing nothing.

Then he’s kicking Hank away from him, frantically untangling from the sheets and the blanket that’s somehow wrapped around his right leg, throwing himself to the floor and running as fast as he can to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

“Connor? _Connor!_ ”

He slides down the other side of the wood, naked ass meeting the tile. The artificial skin around his crotch has returned, but Connor doesn’t notice it at all. He barely takes in the bathroom around him because there are two men in their mid-twenties standing in front of him with clipboards and ID badges, scrutinizing everything about his form. He can’t hear their voices when they speak but they’re there, above him, and what little he can see of his body is the same white-and-gray of before.

The scene morphs. The garden, with Amanda. Rowing the boat under the bridge, around the island in the center.

_Why didn’t you shoot, Connor?_

Chloe.

_Huh!?_

Shoot the Chloe.

_Just a machine. Just a machine. Just a machinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachine–_

The image of the bathroom resolves around him. There’s tile beneath his feet, colored sticky notes on the bathroom mirror, the grimy bathtub built into the wall across from him. He’s barely breathing, the little he is coming and goes in short pants. There are wet tracks across his face and optical fluid in his eyes, continuously spilling over. A dog is barking in another part of the house. Someone’s knocking at the door behind him, saying his name.

“Connor…Connor…”

A shudder erupts through Connor’s entire body, and he brings his hands up to rub at his bare arms. Perhaps if he makes himself small enough, he won’t have to exist anymore. He doesn’t want to exist. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He doesn’t want to do this anymore.

Connor tries to check the time and date, but his HUD is blurring and glitching, sending another spike of panic through him.

_You’re not human. You’re not. You’re a machine. You’re not real._

_He hates you._

A whine escapes him.

_Hank is going to hate you._

He leans his head back against the door. Squeezes his arms tighter, and waits for whatever this is to just end already.

_Defective. Defective. Defective._

_You should be scrapped. You should be dead._

Amanda flashes him a cold smile.

_You should have killed yourself on that stage._

He doesn’t know how much time has passed between giving in and when he hears a solid flump against the other side of the wood.

“C’mere, Sumo.” Connor’s eyes are shut, but he listens to the muffled voice. “Fuck, I don’t know what’s goin’ on. God. Damn it.”

He doesn’t sound angry. Just tired, and so, so sad.

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” Sumo’s collar jingles.

Connor doesn’t know who he’s saying it for.

“Everything will be alright,” he half-sings, voice low.

Connor’s breath catches in his throat.

“Hank?”

The body on the other side of the door shifts. Sumo _boofs_.

“Con?”

“I’m here,” he manages to get out. His voice is tight, almost squeaky.

“Are you okay?”

Connor pauses. “I…I don’t know.”

“Shit,” Hank mumbles. “That’s okay. Can you come out?”

Something in Connor’s throat really _does_ feel tight, and it almost hurts to swallow, to make noise. Shakily, he shifts to his knees and turns around to unlock the door – but not before his mind strikes one final time.

_Hank doesn’t love you._

Then the door opens and there they are, bathed in the golden light of the hallway – Hank, now dressed in a t-shirt and boxers, and Sumo sitting next to him, Hank’s fingers running through his shaggy fur.

“Hey,” Hank says.

He opens his arms, and Connor falls right into them like a marionette with its strings cut.

“Jesus, Con.” Gently, he pulls Connor’s face up and thumbs through the tear tracks on his face. “What the fuck happened back there?”

“It’s okay,” Connor interrupts. “It’s okay if you – hate. Me.” He squirms away, out of the embrace and back onto the bathroom tile. “I’m not a real person.”

“That is _not_ fucking true,” Hank asserts, a slight anger creeping into his voice. Connor flinches back.

“You saw,” he chokes out. A fresh wave of optical fluid spills down his face. “It makes perfect sense if you hate me.”

“ _Fuck_ no.” Hank’s expression shifts from angry to concerned, and not a little confused. “You’re – you’re the same guy whether you got your skin or not. You’re Connor.”

 _I’m Connor,_ his mind echoes back.

“And you’re totally a real person.”

_I’m Connor and Connor should be dead._

He doesn’t know what to say. There’s something inside of him, black and heavy and pressing against his thirium pump, laced through with the thorns from a rose bush.

“Okay.” His voice is shaky. He doesn’t really believe Hank. “Okay.”

Hank seems to visibly relax. He scooches closer, and places his arms back around Connor’s hunched shoulders. Even Sumo comes around and _boofs_ loudly in his ear before licking his cheek, and Connor can’t help but smile at that. Hank presses a kiss into his hair and wraps around him tighter, nuzzling in.

“You’re safe here. You got that?”

For some reason, it’s exactly what Connor needs to hear. His chest loosens, his HUD clears up. It is the 13th of March, 2039 at 12:05 A.M. He’s naked but covered, safe here with Hank and Sumo, the voices in his head all being gradually drowned out as he thaws –

All except his own.

*

“Yup. This fucking sucks.”

“I have to agree with you, Lieutenant.”

The android is lying on her back, a puddle of dark, tacky thirium pooled under her head where it hit the concrete. Strands of her short brown hair, cut in a bob, stick up at odd angles. There’s another trickle of thirium at the corner of her mouth and her eyes are wide, staring up at the sky like she can see rA9 itself.

The sidewalk, an unassuming stretch of concrete along a street leading out of Detroit’s downtown and into a residential neighborhood, is largely blocked off by police tape, glinting in their headlights. Her purse is several yards away, its contents scattered.

She has no LED.

“Looks like we got a report back after the holidays from this one. Stalking. Threats,” Collins reads from his datapad.

“Why wasn’t it sent to us?” Connor leans in, to see him better. The three of them are standing in an awkward half-circle around the far edge of the police tape.

“She hadn’t self-identified as an android at the time, and with no LED…”

“There wasn’t a way of telling,” Hank finishes. “So this model was…?”

“A Traci, it seems,” Connor provides. “One of the many survivors of non-consensual sex work pre-revolution. It looks like an ex-customer became obsessed, and then…”

A shiver goes through him. He suddenly wishes North was here.

Hank picks it up again. “Well, the good news is the fucker didn’t bother to clean up any of his tracks. We already have the description from the earlier report and forensics will get any fingerprints from the purse and the body.”

His gaze flicks back up from Collins’ datapad and to her wide eyes.

“God,” he mutters.

Spring is coming, but the night’s still cold. No snow, no rain, but wind that nips at Connor’s ears and turns the tip of Hank’s nose red.

Connor’s trying to stay grounded. He is. He is. But all too clearly he can see the body in front of him in skimpy Eden Club underwear, the snow in the back alley that night, the feeling of the pistol in his hands, and the terror of failing Amanda only topped by what might happen to these two girls if they die. The wind simply isn’t helping, even with the long coat he favors now that his CyberLife uniform is gone.

Hank nudges him. “You okay?”

Connor blinks. Collins is gone, walking further up ahead to the end of the tape. A couple more cops he doesn’t know mill about. Hank’s still at his side, now looking at him with that annoyed – _not actually annoyed_ , he tries to remind himself – furrow in his brow.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He can’t tell if Hank buys it or not. It’s hard to see. He’s trying to blink snowflakes out of his eyes.

“Looks like it’s just paperwork, at this point. Can’t believe no one took this seriously back when it started. Fuckin’ A.”

“Victims of stalking and domestic or sexual abuse rarely get the follow-ups they need from law enforcement. That is, if the police don’t make it worse,” Connor adds.

Hank bites out a bitter laugh, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Why’re we doing this again?”

 _ ~~I don’t know~~._ “Difficult to teach old dogs new tricks, I suppose.”

Hank laughs again, this time a little more genuine. The snow vanishes for a moment.

“C’mon,” he says, and puts an arm around Connor’s shoulders. “I’m freezing my ass off. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”

“You mean _I’ll_ ‘deal’ the paperwork while you follow leads,” Connor replies drily.

Hank unlocks the car, smiling. “Damn straight.”

*

Connor’s in a precarious situation.

He doesn’t need to enter his stasis mode every single night. He knows this. If he entered stasis just once a week it would be enough to update his systems and regain power. The thought is comforting – but at the same time, spending upwards of forty-eight hours a week lying awake in the dark with nothing and no one but his own thoughts sounds just as hellish as the nightmares.

He’s sitting on the couch with Hank, thirium pump cycling at an unusually fast speed while he contemplates the stasis situation, head pressed against his shoulder. Hank’s arm is slung lazily around his lower back while the TV drones on. He doesn’t think either of them are paying attention to the game at this point, just kind of ~~dissociating~~ dozing on and off. It’s almost midnight – almost time for the two of them to part ways and for Connor to pray to whatever android god may exist that stasis will be uneventful.

He knows it’s time when Hank shifts next to him, heat moving away after a brief kiss on the crown of Connor’s head.

“Wanna come to bed?” he asks, and –

 _Oh_. It’s that kind of night.

Connor’s chest loosens – the spin of his thirium pump slows. He wasn’t expecting tonight to end in sex, but when sex comes with sleeping next to Hank, he can’t really complain.

“Of course,” Connor answers in a low tone, an attempt at both sensuality and sleepiness. Hank stands.

“Cool. I’ll meet you in there, gonna clean up for the night.”

Likely he’s referring to preparation and being coy about it. Connor knows the drill.

There’s no preparation of his own he needs to do – Connor’s hole only needs cleaning in the direct aftermath of sexual encounters, and the same goes for his dick. He has no need for any standard human nighttime routine either – toilet, facewash, brushing teeth. He pads softly into Hank’s bedroom, takes his boxers off at the edge of the bed, and crawls into the center of the mattress, already stacking pillows.

He’s facing away from the door when he hears Hank’s voice again.

“Woah, kid. Do you usually sleep commando?”

Connor turns. Tilts his head in that way he does when he’s processing information.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean naked, like that. I mean it’s fine, nothin’ I haven’t seen before, but…” He interrupts himself to call for Sumo.

The pace of his thirium pump picks up again. He’s confused. Why is Hank asking?

“You asked me to come to bed with you, Hank.”

“Yeah, and…?”

Sumo lumbers past Hank’s legs, through the doorway and into the corner of the room with his dog bed. Understanding suddenly ripples through Hank’s face. He doesn’t exactly seem happy.

“Wait, shit. Did you think I meant sex?”

Connor is still kneeling on the bed in nothing but his oversized sleep shirt, soft dick on full display, clutching at a pillow.

What else could he have meant?

“I…assumed so. I haven’t had a nightmare.” _~~Yet~~_.

Hank’s starting to get annoyed now. Connor can relate, a keen sense of frustration sending heat to his cheeks. “The fuck do you mean?”

“I mean that typically, I only come to bed with you in one of two cases.” He lifts two fingers up, and points at the first. “One, in the event of a nightmare bad enough to disturb my stasis cycle,” he points at the second, “and two, in the event of sexual activity.”

Hank just stares, dumbfounded, mouth hung slightly open.

“Are you…” he starts, once he’s recovered his words. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

 _He hates you,_ Connor’s mind supplies _. You’re defective. You should be dead._

_Hank will never love you._

“I’m sorry, Hank.” Connor shifts the pillow so it completely covers his crotch. He’s half-tempted to reach for his boxers, but doesn’t want to draw any more attention to himself. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Hank drags a hand down his face. Then he turns, shuts the door, and comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Hank,” Connor starts, trying to broach the topic softly, “I can leave –”

“Do you really think you’re not allowed in here unless you’re in pain? Or unless I fuck you?”

 _ ~~Yes~~_. “I’m not sure.”

Hank puts his hands on Connor’s shoulders and gives him a light shake. “Connor, do you know how fucked up that is?”

“It seems perfectly transactional to me,” he tries reasoning.

“ _Transactional?_ Is that what this relationship means to you?”

 _ ~~I don’t know what this relationship means, Hank.~~_ “I’m not sure.”

Hank sighs in annoyance. He removes his hands from Connor’s shoulders.

“Sometimes I forget that you’re still learning. Human emotions, I mean. All that…fuckin’ garbage.” He takes a breath – a deep breath, from the diaphragm. Something his therapist’s taught him, no doubt. “Connor, you’re…”

He stops, losing his words. He stares off at the door, like he’s debating on what exactly he wants to say here. Connor just hugs the pillow tighter.

“I want you here,” Hank finally says. He looks from the door, back at him. “If you wanna be here, I want you here too. And I don’t just mean on the…the couch or whatever the fuck. And god, no, you do _not_ have to put out for me to mean that. Jesus.”

Connor nods. “I understand.”

~~He doesn’t.~~

Hank huffs out a bitter laugh, and picks up Connor’s boxers where they’ve slid off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. “Want these back?”

His pump slows again. “Yes, please.”

Hank tosses them his way, and he discards the pillow to shimmy them back on.

“I dunno about you, but I’m fucking tired.”

Hank slides over and into his side of the bed, the one he sleeps on when Connor crawls in after a nightmare. Hesitantly, Connor lays down next to him. He tries to hide the shaking in his hands, and seems to succeed.

They’re facing each other. In the dark, Hank’s blue eyes are bright.

“G’night, Con.”

Connor breathes.

In a split-second decision, piloted completely by the irrationality in his processor, he reaches below the covers and grasps a hand.

“Good night, Hank.”

Hank squeezes, short and tight.

Connor squeezes back.

*

_Hank doesn’t love you. Hank will never love you._

Somewhere along the way, early on a Saturday morning, when the sun is ricocheting pastel colors across the sky and birds are chirping outside the bedroom window, Connor flips the script.

_Hank will never love you like you love him._

_You love him._

He looks down at the snoring human shirtless beside him. The gray mat of his hair. The curls on his chest. Connor replays his laugh in his mind – watches recorded glimpses of the small, fond smile he doesn’t let anyone else see. Thinks about the sticky notes on the bathroom mirror, their gradual, tentative trend towards hope.

_I love Hank._

Connor burrows back down under the covers, and for just a few hours, lets himself have something wonderful.

*

He tosses the spongey, wet ball across the span of the park, towards the two trees maybe ten yards away. Sumo bounds after it.

It’s a quiet evening after work – the sun’s on its way to setting, and there’s a breeze that’s chill but not cold enough to remind him of November. The first signs of Spring have started popping up. Hank’s been pointing them out as they run errands or take Sumo out on walks – the yellow-green buds on the neighbors’ flower bushes, the tiny leaves starting to sprout from rickety tree branches, the gradual transition from snow to rain.

Connor’s never seen Spring before. Never considered it as something he might be interested in. Seasons have little use, after all, to a detective android, unless their presence somehow figures into a case. He wants to be excited. He wants to match that faint sparkle that shines in Hank’s eye when he talks about plans for the fair weather. And yet…

Sumo’s walking back slower than the run out, muddy green tennis ball wedged firmly between his jaws. The smallest of smiles tugs at the corner of Connor’s mouth – it’s a downgrade compared to the strides he’s taken in expressing his emotions since the new year. In a way, he’s feeling newly deviant all over again.

_~~Like you even deserved to be one to begin with.~~ _

“Excellent work, Sumo.” He attempts a wider smile. He can’t feel it. Sumo barks happily, panting and lolling his tongue.

Connor rears back, and throws the ball again.

Hank had readily offered to come with on this impromptu park jaunt, but Connor had insisted he go alone. He needs time to think, to get away from the stress of…

 _Was it worth it? Hank asks, expression soft_.

To tell the truth, Connor doesn’t know.

He loves Sumo. He loves Hank. He loves their home. He likes his job, when it’s not reminding him of those fragile days leading up to the revolution.

Connor takes the time while Sumo searches for the tennis ball to look around the park. There are humans with their dogs, their children. Androids jogging, androids holding hands, LEDs glinting in the fiery light.

Everyone here has a purpose. Everyone here is stopping for a rest in the middle of life’s chaos, or managing forward on their way to a brighter place.

_Was it worth it?_

Connor doesn’t know what he’s doing.

He’s defied his purpose as a tool to end the revolution – and for what? For nightmares? For the guilt that chokes him whenever he visits Markus and the others? As a lackluster spokesman for android rights?

 _Hank wants you around,_ something in him tries interjecting.

He doesn’t _understand_ what Hank wants. A rebound boyfriend? A fuckbuddy? A roommate? A genuine romantic partner? Connor would happily be any of those things, but he needs to know. He needs to succeed at _something_ , anything.

 _Defective,_ Amanda says. _Truly worthless. What could you possibly have to offer to a CyberLife-free world?_

_Why on Earth would Anderson want you?_

Sumo’s back again. This time, the ball is even soggier than before. There are tears in new places.

Connor smiles something sad.

“Alright,” he clips Sumo’s leash back to his collar. “Let’s return you to your owner.”

Sumo gives Connor’s hand a big, wet lick.

*

Everything’s hot. Connor’s chassis rocks against the pillows as Hank drags himself in and out of his hole, letting out those low grunts that go straight to his dick. But it’s hard to enjoy himself when a not-insignificant portion of his processing power is going towards keeping his artificial skin activated.

If he didn’t care, he could just lose himself. If the white-and-gray didn’t make him want to rip his own plastic plating off and shut down for good, he could actually focus on enjoying this, dissolving into the heat of Hank’s heavy, strong body pinning him down and rutting into his dripping hole.

But he can’t.

He’s barely remembering to keep up a litany of convincing moans as it stands, and it’s a miracle Hank hasn’t seen through the façade at this point. Connor’s never been a good liar, one thing that hasn’t changed at all in the past six months. He must just be that good a lay.

“Fuck,” Hank’s swearing, brow creased, face red. He’s so far gone. “Fuck.”

Connor snakes a quivering hand down to his cock, and bites his lip as he gives in to the sparks of orgasm, praying his skin holds steady while he’s swallowed by pleasure. It’s quite nice, in the end – Connor is by absolutely no means an unwilling participant in this situation. It’s just hard to enjoy himself and Hank to the fullest extent when he’s _terrified_ of a panic attack at any moment.

Hank finishes shortly after and pulls out, initiating the cleanup process for both of them. He’s unspeakably tender when in afterglow – a side of his personality shines through that, if you had notified Connor of it back in early November, he’d have taken your word with a grain of salt. He wipes Connor’s come-sticky hand clean, even gets up to grab him a new pair of boxers from the closet after having soaked through his earlier pair.

Truth be told, Connor _is_ exhausted.

By the time the lights are out and Hank’s settled beside him in bed, Connor’s already tentatively shuffling through the file paths that lead to stasis, ready to flick it on.

Hank plants one last kiss on his lips, and smiles in his cocky, fond way.

“Sleep well, Con.”

It’s too tender to mean that Hank’s just using him to get off – but at the same time, it’s not like Hank’s said anything regarding _love_. ~~And why would he? Hank couldn’t love him.~~

Maybe this… _thing_ , this whatever they have between them, defies categorization. Maybe that’s okay. It’s normal, right? Maybe they really are just friends-with-benefits. That’s a valid type of relationship that humans experience.

~~Connor really, really doesn’t want to be just friends-with-benefits.~~

*

In the end, the last straw isn’t even anything big. Nothing world-shattering in Connor’s life, nor in Hank’s.

The date is the 3rd of April, 2039. He’s sitting at home on the couch, comfortable in a pair of jeans and one of Hank’s old DPD tees, absent-mindedly listening to the news and folding laundry while Hank and Sumo are out on a brief walk. It’s about to turn over into 10:00 A.M., an otherwise ordinary Sunday morning. There isn’t even really anything of interest coming from the TV besides commercials; mentions of petty crimes that the two of them don’t have to worry about; the weather report.

Then it happens – out of the corner of his eye, a familiar face.

Connor turns his full attention to the TV only to stare – dark skin, pronounced jawline, serious eyes.

A JB300.

Connor drops the pair of slacks in his hands – they barely make a sound as they fall to the hardwood floor. All he can think of is Stratford Tower, his CyberLife uniform, the line of JBs in front of him. His voice shaking as he spews threats. He’s treating the three of them like they’re _already_ criminals, like they’re _animals_ , like they’ve committed some atrocity when all they’ve done is ignore a security feed for the sake of their freedom.

He’s trying to ignore his own empathy. He’s shoving it down. He’s letting _her_ words fill his mouth instead.

He’s in excruciating pain, if androids can even truly feel such a thing. His HUD is glitching severely, he’s dying. He’s dying. Then he’s not he’s running and it’s Hank but it’s not Hank but he takes the gun but the JB300 but the blood the blood _thebloodthebloodtheblood –_

And that’s it. That’s the ball game.

It’s truly unfortunate when Hank walks back through the front door with Sumo not three minutes later.

*

They go to bed like normal that night – no sex, no drama. Just a casual evening of TV, a few shared kisses, then off to bed.

Hank pecks him goodnight, like he always does. Connor tries to savor it, the feeling of those familiar lips on his, knowing this is the last time he’ll feel it.

Connor’s never been a good liar. But if there’s one thing he _is_ good at faking, it’s entering stasis.

There’s a single, hairy arm slung around him as Hank flips to his stomach. He wishes he could ~~let himself~~ feel the warmth. He wishes he had spent a little more time enjoying the intimate ins and outs of Hank’s body next to his the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that.

He doesn’t have much time left.

Carefully, as subtly as he can, Connor lifts one palm to stroke the arm around his waist. He loves the texture of the wiry gray curls offset by skin. He enjoys counting wrinkles, the beginnings of liver spots on the back of Hank’s hand. Signs of age he knows he will never show, even if he wasn’t about to…

When Hank’s breathing evens into long, deep breaths, the precursor to REM sleep, Connor knows his time is up.

He shimmies out from under Hank’s arm, slipping a pillow carefully underneath. He forces himself not to breathe, even though it makes his thirium pump spin at truly dizzying speeds and the bad memories seep in against his will. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s fine. He’ll be done soon. He won’t be defective anymore.

Now, androids aren’t meant to hurt _themselves_.

There’s a reason that every android who killed themselves on Connor’s watch did so via gun – there’s failsafes in place, preventing them from initiating a purposeful shut down or from removing their own thirium pumps, for example.

It’s ironic, really. Connor worked so hard those first few months to steer Hank away from the whiskey, from the revolver. Yet here _he_ is – crawling as carefully as he can out of Hank’s bed while the latter sleeps.

It’s okay. He won’t have to feel guilty anymore.

It’s fine.

He’d already checked at an earlier point in the day – the revolver is still in the kitchen drawer, the one with years and years of old shopping bags compressed inside. As far as he knows, it hasn’t been fired at least since he moved in. He digs under the plastic until his hand reaches cold metal – pulls it out, and checks the chamber. Still only one bullet.

That’s fine. He’s not playing Russian Roulette. He has a goal in mind.

Connor slides the drawer closed again. When he rises back to his full stature, he catches sight of Sumo’s food and water bowls in the corner. The mess he always makes out of the kibble, no matter how Hank or himself try and clean it up.

He looks further up – through the latticework separating the kitchen from the living room, where he’s spent most of his short life sleeping. The coat rack by the door, Hank’s black coat, Connor’s long gray one. Sumo’s leash.

Little things continue to strike him. The record player. The shelf of movies Connor attempted to watch before he could go back to work. The path leading back to Hank’s bedroom, the same one he so timidly walked into the first time they had sex.

The dining table at his side, once covered in takeout boxes – now with a laptop, a coffee mug. One glass tinged blue from holding thirium.

Fuck. Fuck. No. He can’t think about this. He can’t back out like he did on the revolution stage. Hank’s life is lovely, but it’s not his. It’s not for him.

He’s worthless. He’s defective.

He’s never going to hurt anyone again.

With a fresh surge of emotion, Connor presses the barrel of the revolver to his chin, and –

 _Click_.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. ~~Tears~~ Optical fluid spills down his face that he didn’t realize was building up.

He presses harder, pulls the trigger.

 _Click_.

He can’t do this. He can’t do this. He doesn’t want to fucking die but he doesn’t want to live either. The gun weighs down his hand like a brick. It’s getting harder to hold.

He forces his shaking hand back up. The ~~tears~~ optical fluid is like a set of twin rivers.

He presses the revolver to his chin and –

_“Connor!”_

– he drops the gun.

Connor doesn’t think he’s seen Hank move that fast in his life. Well, not that he really _saw_ it as such, not between the watery vision and his legs collapsing under him.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , what the _fuck_ , Connor _what the fuck_ –”

Sumo’s started barking. Connor hears the skid of metal across the tiled floor as Hank kicks the gun away and as far out of reach as possible.

“What the fuck,” he’s repeating over and over, voice pitched high with panic. “What the fuck?”

And finally, he enters Connor’s wobbly vision, getting down on his knees in front of him and roughly grabbing his hands.

“ _What the fuck were you thinking?”_

He’s so cold.

“What the fuck were you _doing_?”

He’s so cold, but Hank’s hands are so warm.

Connor goes for a breath, but ends up hiccupping instead.

“I-it. It seems r-rather obvious to me. Lieutenant.”

Hank doesn’t scold him for the title, for slipping back into old habits.

“Jesus. Jesus, Mary, and _fucking_ Joseph. Connor.”

One of Hank’s hands leaves the tight grasp on his, and Connor misses the warmth only for it to reappear on the side of his face, thumbing through a tear track.

“Connor. Hey. Look at me, Con.”

He does, barely. His vision’s still blurry.

“Do you know what my life would fucking be like without you?” Hank asks, face creased in concern. Blue eyes bright in the dark. Connor wants to stare into them forever.

He can’t respond. Maybe it’s the tears, but his voicebox just isn’t giving anything up. Connor shakes his head instead.

“Jesus, Con. Fuck’s sake, I’d be – God. I’d be exactly where you are right now. Fuckin’ crying on the kitchen floor next to a handgun. You know that?”

“I know that,” Connor finally rasps.

“Okay. Fuck, look, I know it’s not as simple as this but – what the fuck happened, Con?”

Daniel. Rupert. The Tracis. Chloe. Jericho.

The survivor they found murdered. The JB300.

Amanda.

“I’m defective,” Connor says simply, and barely holds back from dissolving into sobs. He had no idea he could – _feel_ this much. This _terribly_.

“No, Con, sweetheart, no,” Hank says, and shifts closer to bring his arm around Connor’s shoulders, his upper back. “You thinkin’ that cos you’re deviant?”

_Yes. No. It’s complicated._

“I was int-tended t-to turn deviant and murder Markus. I was made to hurt-t – all those androids,” he says, barely above a whisper. “And I didn’t. I’m not. I d-don’t want to.”

He tries to collect himself, sucking in what breaths he can before continuing. “Human emotions are – hard. They’re so _hard_ , Hank –” the arm around his shoulder tightens, drawing him closer, “—and sometimes I don’t understand w-why I chose this. Especially after what I did.”

“Y’mean under your programming?”

Connor struggles with that, even though it’s the truth. “Yes. Due, in part, to – to Amanda, the AI CyberLife p-planted. In me.”

This isn’t the first time Connor’s mentioned her. Since the nightmares began, the conversation was…harder to avoid, than he expected. Hank has the Cliff’s Notes.

He nods in understanding.

“Shit, kid.”

“A-and that’s –”

Connor’s mouth moves before his mind does, an occurrence just as rare as the sobs. Perhaps he truly is breaking.

“Yeah?” Hank prompts, shaking him gently.

Now that he’s opened that can of worms, so to speak, he knows he can’t undo it.

“Hank, what am I?” This time, Connor meets Hank’s eyes of his own volition. He looks impossibly confused by the question. “What –” the words from the bridge echo back to him, “—what do you want me to be?”

Hank blinks. He’s still confused. “I want you to be _you_ , Con. And I want you to be alive, for fuck’s sake.”

 _“No,”_ Connor insists, and pushes out of Hank’s grasp. He takes a massive breath. “Lieutenant Hank Anderson, what _am_ I to you? Your work partner? Your roommate? Your sexual fling?”

Those blue eyes widen slightly.

“Oh.”

The two feet of distance between them feels enormous. Connor wraps his arms around his chest, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

_He’ll never love you like you love him he’ll never love you like you love him he’ll never he’ll never he’ll never he’ll –_

“I’ve been a motherfucking _idiot_ ,” Hank says tiredly, “haven’t I?”

The question is just out of place enough to snap Connor out of the spiraling thoughts.

“I sincerely doubt that, Lieutena—”

“Connor, I love _the shit_ out of you.”

Connor just blinks. A fresh wave of tears crests and crashes.

“Lieutenant –”

“I’m a fucking idiot and I didn’t wanna say it cos I was being a goddamn coward. Fucking hell, Con –”

_“Hank.”_

He shuts up, eyes focusing intently on Connor’s face.

“I love you too,” Connor croaks.

They’re silent, each processing the other’s words. Connor hiccups again. Hank takes a shaky breath of his own.

“I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t come along,” he says, tone low, as if trying not to cry himself.

Connor laughs weakly. “I guess that makes two of us.”

This time, when they crawl back together like two pieces of a whole, Connor’s the one to initiate.

He climbs into Hank’s lap, wraps his arms around his neck. Nuzzles into his beard. Hank’s arms tighten around him, holding him closer than he ever has, even after D.C., even after nightmares or sex.

“I’m so sorry,” Connor says.

“Don’t,” Hank responds. “I get it. I’ve been there.”

Connor reaches up to Hank’s face, shadowed by his gray hair. He runs his fingers through the side of it, tucking what he can behind his ear. Hank lets him. Connor’s fingers move lower, trailing through the beard, enjoying the scratchy texture under the pads of his fingers.

Light floods their tiny slice of the kitchen as Connor’s hands go white.

It’s not easy for him. Connor would absolutely be lying if he said he could ignore the thirium pump in his chest spinning and spinning and spinning. His breathing, already a challenge because of the tears, stutters.

Slowly, as if making sure it’s okay, Hank brings his hands around to hold Connor’s wrists. Under his rough palms the plastic shifts into metal, alternating gray-and-white.

“I’m sorry,” Connor repeats, knowing it’s a lost cause.

Hank lifts a hand to his lips, placing a peck on one white knuckle.

“S’ok.”

Here, being human and machine both doesn’t feel quite as frightening.

How could he have ever given this up?

*

Monday. 4th April, 2039. 11:12 A.M.

Connor blinks awake on a day he never thought he’d live to see.

The sunlight’s bright through the bedroom curtains. If he looks to the dresser on the other side of the bed, there’s a little photo frame on proud display. Hank is breathing evenly next to him, a veritable space heater among the sheets of his bed. _Their_ bed.

A strange little warning sign flashes to itself in one corner of his HUD. Connor flicks the notification open – finds he’s nearly run out of optical fluid, and that he can _report to the nearest CyberLife store for a replacement at minimal charge._

Go figure.

Connor then glances at the digital clock again, only just realizing what time it is – forty minutes until they’re supposed to be at work.

He rips off the bed covers, frantically scrambling through the dog toys and dirty clothes on the floor and over to their closet. He’s already dialing the number for Captain Fowler to notify him they’ll likely be late when the bedding rustles behind him.

“Don’t bother,” Hank says, a grin in his voice. “Already called in sick for us.”

Connor processes that, and slowly turns around. “Us?”

“Yeah,” Hank shrugs, shirtless, slumped in bed. “Both of us.”

The reason why remains unspoken, implications hanging heavily in the bedroom. Connor slowly lowers the button-up shirt he’s practically strangling.

“Oh.” He nods. “Alright.”

Hank’s smile turns a little softer, a little sadder. “Come back to bed?”

_You don’t deserve this._

But he wants you here.

_You’re defective. You’re worthless._

He loves you.

_You will never be enough._

You love him.

The war in Connor’s thoughts still rages, but quiets just enough that he walks back to his side of the bed, drops the shirt over the armchair in the corner, and sits on the edge of the mattress.

“Hank, I would just like to reiterate in the light of day that I apologize –”

“Oh, shut it.” Hank says, still smiling. “You wanna know how you can prove you’re sorry to me?”

Connor’s head snaps up. “How?”

“Well, for one,” Hank straightens against his pillows, “You should probably see a shrink, like me. Honestly if you’d told me a year ago that shit works I woulda clocked you, but it’s true. And second –”

He hesitates before coming out with it. “Stay here. Living. With me, if you want to.”

“Only if you promise me the same thing,” Connor shoots back.

Hank huffs out a laugh, then hangs his head in that self-deprecating, defeated way. “Ya got me.” He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Ya got me. We are both fucked up to hell and back, aren’t we?”

“Sounds like our usual weekend proclivities."

He barks out a laugh. “That a ‘yes?’”

Connor exhales, shakily. He looks at his hands, the veins carrying his thirium through to all the parts of his body that need it.

“Yes.”

He is so very _alive_.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic got me through january.
> 
> [ title song, "soap"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MyRaiKocNnk)
> 
> [ my twitter](https://twitter.com/darlathecyborg)


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